Wily led Roveeka, Odette, Pryvyd, and Righteous down the long hallway to the grand sitting room. Inside, Wily spied his mother, Lumina Arbus, staring down at a large map of Panthasos unfurled on the oak table. Although she no longer wore a rainbow of colored scarves over her face like when she was a noble bandit fighting the tyranny of the Infernal King, she still kept a pendant of rainbow colors around her neck as a reminder of who she used to be. On the table beside the map, Lumina’s two pet ferrets, Gremlin and Impish, wrestled over a quill pen. They poked at each other with their paws while Wily’s mother eyed the map.
“Would you two cut it out?” Lumina said in a huff. “If you each want a quill pen, there are plenty more in the upstairs study.”
That was not a good enough answer for either Gremlin or Impish, who seemed to only want the one they were currently fighting over.
Pryvyd, Roveeka, Odette, and Righteous waited just outside the hall as Wily stepped in. “Hi, Mom,” Wily said with no life in his voice.
Lumina looked up, and her expression immediately transformed from frustration to joy. “Wily!” his mother said. “You’re back safe.”
Lumina moved swiftly toward her son. Impish and Gremlin both dropped the quill pen and excitedly followed. Wily felt his mother’s arms wrap tightly around his body as he slumped into her. He pressed his head against her shoulder and she kissed his temple.
The hug was as warm and comforting as a bowl of chicken soup. No matter how many times he embraced his mother, it still had this incredible power. He wondered if there was some kind of special magic that caused a hug to feel so good. Once he finally learned to read, he would have to check the library’s spell books to find out.
“Can I get you something to eat?” Lumina asked as she pulled back to get a good look at her long-lost son. “A sandwich? Or a bowl of fruit?”
“I really don’t have much of an appetite,” Wily said, feeling a queasiness in the pit of his gut.
“Moshul was just making a mushroom-and-sprout salad,” Lumina added. “I know you always like those.”
Wily looked at his mother as if she had gone crazy. What was she talking about?
Then Wily heard a series of heavy footsteps approaching. He spun around—and saw none other than Moshul standing there, holding a wooden bowl of greens.
“Moshul!” Wily called out in disbelief.
He ran to the moss golem and threw his arms around one of his soft green legs. Roveeka hurried over and embraced his other leg. Odette was so excited that she vaulted off a chair and did a full body hug around his neck. Pryvyd, with Righteous floating by his side, stepped up behind the others.
Moshul seemed just as happy to see them. He put the salad bowl down on the nearby table and squeezed them all together in a long group hug.
“We thought we had lost you,” Odette said, dropping back to the ground.
“How did you survive the fall?” Pryvyd spoke and signed at the same time.
Moshul signed back in response.
“My big brothers, the stone golems, are stronger than I can ever be,” Odette translated for Wily and Roveeka’s benefit. “They are made of rock. But I am made of mud.”
“That much I know,” Pryvyd added, “but it doesn’t answer my question.”
“I think it does,” Roveeka said with a big smile. “He’s like a giant ball of wet clay.” Roveeka was not the most mechanically inclined individual, but she was a brilliant geologist. She knew more about rocks, stones, and dirt than anyone else Wily had ever met.
“Then explain it to the rest of us,” Pryvyd said to Roveeka.
“When a rock falls from a great distance,” Roveeka said, “and strikes the hard ground, it shatters on its fault lines. It will break into a dozen pieces or more. But when clay hits the ground, if it’s wet and moist enough, it doesn’t break. It just changes shape.”
Moshul nodded and then turned around with a look of embarrassment. His right shoulder and back, which were once muscular and impressive, now looked like a flat pancake covered in smashed lettuce. Moshul signed again, this time timidly.
“I know I look very silly,” Odette translated for the moss golem. “Hopefully when the plants grow back on my shoulder, no one will notice.”
“Who cares?” Wily said. “You’re alive!”
“It doesn’t matter what you look like,” Roveeka said. “It’s what’s on the inside that counts.”
“Which in your case is mud and worms,” Odette said with a smirk.
“Some of the nicest worms around,” Roveeka added.
“We’re just so glad that you’re here,” Pryvyd said, with Righteous bobbing up and down in agreement at his side.
Wily thought that if Moshul had a mouth to smile with, he’d be doing so now. Instead, the golem’s jeweled eyes just twinkled brightly.
Wily looked back to his mother as his stomach started to grumble. “All of a sudden,” Wily said with a smile, “I am feeling very hungry.”
5
STEEL WALLS
That evening, a giant feast was held in the glass-floored dining room for Wily, his friends, and all the workers employed in the palace. A buffet was set with food for every palate, from roasted fish and watermelon salad to cricket stew and fungus spores. Just like every night, there was no wait staff serving the food. Each person helped themselves. It was one of the few traditions that Wily had brought from Carrion Tomb to the palace. He liked how it created a great sense of community, where everyone understood that no matter what their job was, they were all viewed as equals.
As the guests dined, the Skull of Many Riddles hovered around the room, assaulting people with its latest jokes. It floated over to the end of the table where Wily was sitting with Odette and Roveeka.
“A riddle for your amusement!” the skull cackled as its eye sockets burst into green flames.
Wily had tried to explain to the skull that terrifying the guests before telling a joke was not a good way to get a laugh, but for the levitating skull, old habits died hard.
“Go ahead,” Wily said courteously.
“What does a crab dragon do before it goes to sleep?” the skull asked with a sinister grin.
Wily shrugged, even though he knew the answer.
“Eats his late-knight snack,” the skull screamed victoriously.
Wily and Roveeka each squeezed out a polite chuckle. Odette didn’t bother.
“Why aren’t you roaring with laughter?” the skull moaned. “That was funny! Did you not understand it? There are two kinds of (k)nights. The kind with the sword and the kind at the end of the day with the moon. Ugh, these jokes are a much harder kind of riddle than I’m used to telling.”
“Keep trying,” Roveeka said, attempting to cheer the skull up. “You’ll get the hang of it eventually.”
* * *
WILY’S ATTENTION WANDERED. Nearby, Moshul, who had no mouth and didn’t eat, had a small blanket laid on his outstretched legs, where Gremlin and Impish had set up a picnic for themselves with small portions of every treat. The two ferrets clinked a pair of tiny goblets together before diving into the food, making a crumby mess all over the blanket.
“Yecch,” Roveeka said, her voice full of disgust.
Wily’s focus was brought back to the table. His hobgoblet sister had pushed her dinner plate across the oak surface. A chunk of baked toad sat on the porcelain setting with only a small bite taken out of it.
“I thought baked toad was a hobgoblet delicacy,” Wily said.
“It is,” Roveeka responded, covering her mouth. “But this is horrible. So clean and fresh. It’s lacking all the deliciously murky flavors that come with cooking it in a dirty pan and then letting it slowly rot for seven days.”
“It tastes a lot like the toad we were served in Carrion Tomb to me,” Wily said. Then he added, “But I don’t have the refined tongue of a hobgoblet.”
“You really don’t,” Roveeka agreed. “It’s a wonder that I ever thought you were a hobgoblet at all.” She looke
d down at her plate again. “Maybe if I add some slime mold.” She reached for a small bottle on the table. “It might cover up the bright herb flavor.”
She uncorked the bottle and let a puddle of gray slime dribble onto the toad. She picked up the chunk of meat and took another bite. Then she sighed, disappointed. “Didn’t help.”
Just then, from the far side of the hall, the drawbridge guard with silver face paint came racing in. She was chasing after a squatling that was no taller than her knee and had large yellow-and-black wings that would have seemed at home on the back of a giant tiger moth.
“Get back here!” the guard yelled as she tried to tackle the squatling.
The moth-winged creature flapped his wings and leaped high into the air. He grabbed hold of the bronze chandelier and hung there as he gasped for breath.
“I tried to stop him,” the guard said apologetically to Wily, “but he was too fast. He refused to speak with anyone but you.”
The squatling looked down from his perch. Wily could see that his brow was coated with sweat and his bare feet were blackened from hours of walking in the dirt. “I was told by the village elder to only talk with the prince,” the squatling said.
“Go ahead,” Wily called to him. “I’m listening.”
“Last night, when the moon was still high,” the squatling said, and Wily could hear the dread in his voice, “four stone golems came marching into Stilt Village, toppling houses and tossing carts. Many squatlings were injured. One nearly died.”
A murmur of panic spread through the dining hall.
“Were the golems joined by anyone else?” Pryvyd asked.
“Yes. A pair of robed witches walked behind them.”
“I don’t understand,” Odette blurted. “Of all the places in Panthasos … why attack Stilt Village? It’s a quiet fishing town.”
“I have an answer,” the squatling said. “Although it is a strange answer indeed. The golems marched straight into town and ripped out the stone statue that stood at the center of our bubbling fountain. Then they marched off with it.”
“They stole a statue?” Odette asked aloud. “Was it covered in diamonds or something?”
“No. It was just plain black stone. In fact, no one in Stilt Village liked it much at all.”
“This statue…,” Wily asked. “What was it carved in the shape of?”
The squatling looked as if he were afraid to answer. “It was a statue of the Infernal King. Your father.”
A hush fell over the dining room.
Lumina turned to Wily and, under her breath, whispered to him, “This is bad. Stalag and his mages are moving faster than we could have expected.”
After a moment of silence, Wily stood up from the table. “Enjoy the rest of your dinner,” he told the assembled guests as he started moving for the hall.
“Where are you going?” Roveeka asked.
“To my room. To think.”
But Wily had a very different plan.
* * *
AS HIS HORSE galloped along the dirt road that snaked through Trumpet Pass, Wily pulled his hooded cloak over his head and around his shoulders. He couldn’t be sure if it was the chill in the air or the thought of seeing his father that was sending shivers down his arms.
Beyond the next cliff, he could see the steel walls of the prisonaut catching glints of moonlight in its polished surfaces. The prison on wheels had once rolled across the countryside, armed with gearfolk and snagglecarts, capturing the innocent and locking them within. But now, the prisonaut’s wheels had been removed and it stood dormant at the foot of the Parchlands, holding captive just one man, a man that both his mother and Pryvyd would have discouraged Wily from visiting.
As Wily neared the imposing structure, a pair of soldiers came to the edge of the watchtower.
“This area is off-limits,” the soldier called out. “Turn back.”
Wily pulled the hood from his head, revealing his blue eyes and tangle of brown hair. “I’m here to see my father,” he yelled back.
Upon clearly seeing his face, the soldiers recognized Wily. “Of course. Just give us a few minutes to prepare him for visitors.”
Wily waited as the soldiers on the watchtower disappeared from view. He hadn’t visited the prisonaut since defeating his father in the Infernal Fortress months earlier. His palms grew slick with sweat at the thought of this unpleasant reunion. It was enough to make him want to turn back and return to the royal palace without any answers as to why the statue had been stolen from Stilt Village. Before he could act upon his sudden hesitation, the sound of metal gears grinding against one another echoed through the valley. Wily watched as the gates of the prisonaut lifted open and a ramp descended.
On the other side of the steel wall, one of the soldiers stood waiting for him. “Right this way,” the guard said.
The inside of the prisonaut was not what one would have expected from the outside. Instead of being filled with cages, it resembled a small town complete with cottages, street lamps, and a cobblestoned square. But it was still a prison. Along the tops of the walls, knights in silver armor patrolled with crossbows in hand.
“He’s inside here,” the guard said, stopping before a small, windowless house.
“I will speak with him alone,” Wily said with a calm demeanor, despite feeling anything but calm.
“We’ve chained him down, so there’s no need to worry,” the soldier said as he opened the door to the cottage.
Wily walked inside and found himself in what appeared to be a small living room. Only instead of a couch and end tables, Wily’s father sat in a wooden chair bolted to the floor, his ankles shackled to the legs.
Without his armor on, Kestrel Gromanov was a slight man, neither tall nor muscular. A pair of wire-rim spectacles sat on his nose like a crow perched on a branch. His hands lay in his lap with fingers interlocked, but his blue eyes tracked Wily as he crossed the room to a chair that was placed opposite him.
“It’s not so easy, is it?” Kestrel said before Wily could take his seat.
“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Wily replied.
“Being king,” Kestrel answered. “Holding the fate of the entire land in your hands. There are so many things that can go wrong. And everyone is looking to you for answers.”
Wily sat silently as his father stared at him intently.
“I always enjoyed building things far more than giving commands,” Kestrel said.
Wily swallowed hard. He felt the same way. Not that he was going to tell that to his father. They were nothing alike.
Except for their blue eyes. Wily couldn’t help those.
“You’ve come to see me,” his father spoke with an eerie calm. “I strongly doubt it’s to count the wrinkles on my forehead.”
“There was a statue of you in Stilt Village,” Wily said. “It was stolen.”
“Stolen?” Kestrel said. “How odd. That’s not the kind of thing you can slip into your pocket when nobody’s looking. It took a pair of my strongest snagglecarts to drag it there in the first place.”
“It was ripped out of the ground by golems.”
Wily waited for his father’s reaction. After a long pause, a wide smile stretched across his face.
“Did you have something to do with this?” Wily asked. “Are you working with Stalag?”
“What would I do with a statue of myself?” Kestrel asked with a crooked smile. “How would that get me out of here? Unless, of course…”
“Unless what?” Wily was growing angry.
Kestrel mumbled something quietly to himself, then began to chuckle.
“Why are you laughing?” Wily got to his feet and moved closer to Kestrel. “What did you say?”
Suddenly, Kestrel moved swiftly. He darted forward and grabbed a screwdriver from Wily’s trapsmith belt. In one fluid motion, he jammed the tip of the screwdriver into the locking mechanism of the cuffs holding his ankles in place. With a twist, the cuffs popped open, freeing Kestre
l instantly.
Wily tried to bolt for the door of the cottage but his father was prepared. Kestrel snatched an ankle cuff off the floor and snapped one side of it around Wily’s wrist and the other side to the chair Wily had been sitting on.
“Thanks for the screwdriver,” Kestrel said with a smirk. “They don’t let me have tools in here. They think I might do bad things with them.”
“You won’t get past the front gate,” Wily said.
“I wouldn’t be so sure,” Kestrel snapped back. “In the dark of night, we look an awful lot alike.” He pulled the cloak from Wily’s shoulders and wrapped it around himself. “Which is why I’ll be borrowing this too.” He pulled his glasses off his face and pocketed them, then lifted the hood over his head and moved swiftly for the door. “Farewell.”
Kestrel slipped out of the cottage, leaving Wily alone, wrestling to free his wrist from the tight cuff.
“The Infernal King is escaping!” Wily shouted at the top of his lungs.
It was impossible to know if anyone outside heard him at all.
Wily looked at the lock on the cuff. Even if he could have picked it, the only tool capable of doing the job had just been stolen by his father. He looked inside his trapsmith belt, desperate to find something else to set himself free. Then he spied a slender glass tube of lizard mucus.
Ewww, he thought. But what choice do I have?
With his free hand, he uncorked the tube of mucus and let globs of the slippery ooze drip down his trapped arm. Although disgusting, it made his arm as slippery as a wet rat. He twisted his wrist and tugged backward, pulling so hard that he nearly dislocated his thumb.
He tried again. With another tug, he was free.
Wily bounded from the chair and sprinted for the door. He grabbed its knob with his right hand, but his fingers were so slick with lizard mucus that they slipped off. He tried the knob again with his left. This time he was able to turn it.
Lair of the Beast Page 4
